


Mastering Self Requires Strength

by zinke



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Cylons, F/M, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-26
Updated: 2009-05-26
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinke/pseuds/zinke
Summary: It’s unsettling how recent events have quickly brought us to this counterpoint; a desperate dependence on the very traits we’d once feared would destroy us.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to survival instinct.net on May 26, 2009.
> 
> I began work on this story shortly after The Hub first aired, but lost track of it sometime during the final hiatus of doom. Despite the events of season 4.5, I do think the story is still relevant and presents some interesting ideas and so I decided to pull it out, clean it up and post it for you fine folks as my contribution to adama_roslin’s Month of Love celebrations. Enjoy!
> 
> The title for this story comes from Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching; an interesting read if you ever get the chance.
> 
> Thanks go as always to caz963 and nnaylime for their suggestions and advice.

I’d expected to feel…different somehow. Freer. More alive, as ridiculous as that sounds. But as I stand here and watch D’Anna move confidently about the control center, all I feel is disappointed. For all of our efforts, the rest of us will never taste the freedom her absolute uniqueness offers her; we have sisters, brothers, identical copies with whom we share so much – too much, by human standards – to be considered anything but a pale imitation of a person.

In spite of everything we’ve achieved today, I can’t help but wonder what it must feel like to be the only one of your kind – a true individual. And the more I think about it, the more I find myself selfishly wanting what D’Anna has – and resenting her for having acquired it more or less by default. 

By all appearances, it seems I am the only one who harbors such conflicting feelings. The others seem content not only to have D’Anna amongst us again but to have her leading the way as we begin to navigate this new chapter of our existence. Logically it makes sense; D’Anna was the first of the seven of us to not only question our origins and purpose, but to seek out the answers to those greater mysteries. 

And yet I can’t seem to silence the voice at the back of my mind that is urging me to be wary.

Beside me, Leoben looks up from his study of the endless scrolling of code and reports with a hint of anticipation in his voice, “We should reach the Colonial Fleet’s coordinates within the hour.”

D’Anna’s eyes narrow as she nods slowly in response. “In that case, I think it’s high time we renegotiated the terms of this little arrangement.”

“What do you mean?” Six asks nervously.

“The President bent the rules; now it’s our turn to do the same.” D’Anna presses her hands to the interface and, after listening to the datastream for several moments, raises her head to look pointedly at me. “Roslin and the Admiral are in the hangar bay. Bring them here,” she states levelly, her eyes and expression leaving no room for argument.

In spite of my misgivings, I’m moving towards the doorway even before I’ve fully processed her command. It seems none of us are willing or capable of arguing with her; the others also remain silent, though the covert glances they are exchanging speak volumes. Not so long ago, it had been our fear of D’Anna’s arrogance and presumption that had driven us to box her in the first place, to ensure the continuation of our way of life. It’s unsettling how recent events have quickly brought us to this counterpoint; a desperate dependence on the very traits we’d once feared would destroy us.

My steps carry me through the doorway and along one of the many long corridors of our injured ship, transformed for my eyes to resemble the smoothly rutted walls of a Trojan salt mine – a visual memory that feels so much a part of who I am and yet I know to be nothing more than a fabrication. There is no truth in it – if anything, the memory should belong only to Boomer, or Athena – but the emotions it evokes in me are all too real – comfort, love, safety, home – and if that isn’t enough to make it mine, what is? 

I can hear the heavy footfalls of Centurions – a pair from the sound of it – following close behind me, no doubt sent by D’Anna: not for my protection but as additional incentive for both Admiral Adama and the President to comply with her summons. The looming presence of the footsoldiers at my back serves to rekindle my earlier anger, carrying with it the memory of Helo’s resolute expression as he told me of President Roslin’s willful duplicity. Though he’d done his best to dress up his part in it with pretty words like ‘honor’ and ‘duty’, Helo’s betrayal continues to sting – more than it reasonably should. He is not my husband, is not someone I love, and yet his deceit hurts as if he means everything to me. 

Accessing my sister’s memories had seemed only a minor violation at the time; and even now, despite all that has happened I don’t regret it. Through her love for Helo, Athena discovered her true self and if she and I are cast from an identical mold then wouldn’t it stand to reason that I’d be able to find myself in exactly the same way? I had wanted – no, needed – to know that the havoc wreaked by our actions would ultimately be worthwhile; that like her, I – and my siblings – would be able to walk that path to individuality. But instead I am more bewildered than ever by this idea of ‘self’, of existing as a being in one’s own right rather than as a like-minded collective.

It is terrifying, this notion – now become reality – of being ‘one’; of having only one life, one death. That there will come a time when you simply cease to exist; that life is no longer a series of chances but a succession of choices, and once a path has been chosen, there is no going back. 

Maybe that’s one of the reasons why humans behave as they do. With so much at stake, how can one not put their needs above those of any other individual or group? The enormity of the sacrifice required in order to do so is almost unthinkable. And yet there are some – the suicide bombers on New Caprica for instance – who are willing to give their lives – that most precious of gifts – for others without hesitation or regret. 

I’d never fully understood how the leaders of the Resistance – Laura Roslin in particular – could have justified such actions. But in the wake of recent events, I’ve come to realize just how overpowering their desperation must have been.

It doesn’t take me long to reach my destination, and after instructing the Centurions to wait at the hatch, I square my shoulders, take a fortifying breath, and step purposefully into the hangar bay. My eyes quickly scan the dimly lit, cavernous space; but aside from the Admiral’s Raptor sitting in the center of the room, its port-side door yawning wide and consoles dark – the area appears empty.

The hushed stillness of the place is unsettling, and not only because I am fearful of what D’Anna will do if I return to her without our ‘guests’. It is something deeper, as if the very sounds of life itself – the familiar rhythm of heartbeat and breath that sustains us all, from Baseship to Centurion to human – have been muted; and for an irrational moment I wonder if we’ve somehow been discovered by Cavil and the others, and if this is what death is like. 

But then I hear a faint rustle of fabric from inside the Raptor and the eerie spell is broken. “Admiral Adama? Madame President?” I call out tentatively as I take several slow steps into the bay. I find my hesitancy both confusing and irritating; these people may be bound to us by a common goal and enemy, but they are our allies in name only. President Roslin has willfully deceived us. D’Anna apparently now plans to return the favor and there seems little reason for me to be treading gingerly; yet I can’t seem to help myself. I sense something in the air here, something fragile that I am loath to disturb; and so I make my way slowly, cautiously onto the wing of the ship and duck my head inside. 

The tableau with which I am presented is so strange, so far removed from anything I had expected that I find myself rooted to the spot. They are both here, and it’s clear from their closed eyes and lack of reaction that neither is aware of my presence. Both are resting on a narrow bench at the rear of the cabin, the Admiral leaning back against the inner hull, the President lying curled beside him, her head resting comfortably on his thigh and her hands tucked beneath her chin. In one hand he holds her glasses – his own are still perched low on his nose – and with the other he holds her, his thumb brushing gently, rhythmically along the curve of her shoulder.

The practiced control and hardened edges I’ve always associated with these two people is thoroughly absent; instead there are only a man and a woman at rest, with no titles or pretext between them. As I continue to study them, I can’t help but wonder what could be so powerful as to affect such a transformation in two such notoriously intractable people; surely it is more than the easy languor of sleep that has brought them such contentment. 

Love. 

The word pops into my mind without warning and with no apparent basis or foundation. There is none of the fierceness or single-minded devotion that Helo and my sister share, none of the hopeless infatuation that Caprica Six refused to acknowledge but all of us knew she felt for Gaius Baltar. Instead of the blind passion that is all I have ever seen of love between two people, I sense a comfortable intimacy here that seems no less real for its understated nature. 

As the second pass, marked by the soft, even rhythm of their breathing, other things begin to slide into place and I realize with a mixture of dismay and apprehension that I am probably not the only one to have noticed this hidden facet to their relationship. Laura Roslin had been as surprised as the rest of us to find only a lone Raptor waiting for us at the Fleet’s rendezvous coordinates. But the moment the Admiral’s voice had crackled to life over the comm her expression, though still apprehensive, had immediately softened, and there had been an unexpected brightness in her eyes when she insisted she be the one to meet the Admiral when he docked.

Much to my surprise – and that of the others – D’Anna had complied with the President’s demand without hesitation or complaint.

Now I understand why.

Exploiting human weaknesses, manipulating and using emotion like a weapon; these methods have long served my people well. Naïvely I’d hoped that somehow we’d all – human and Cylon alike – grown beyond the need to use such base and petty tactics. Now that I’ve realized my role in this latest of D’Anna’s schemes I can see how wrong I was, and just how lonely being an individual – with only my own opinions and counsel to guide me – can be. 

Suddenly, the all too human drive for companionship, for the love and respect of another makes perfect, beautiful sense to me.

Feeling strangely self-conscious, I take a step back from the Raptor’s flight cabin and wince as the metal beneath my feet groans slightly in response. Hurriedly, I look up to see whether the disturbance has been noticed, only to find the Admiral’s icy blue eyes staring unflinchingly back at me. His face darkens with suspicion as he leans protectively over the still-sleeping form of the President. 

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to speak; as unhappy as I am with D’Anna and the situation she is creating, I know that I have no choice in the matter right now. As much as I may wish things were different, I don’t yet have someone of my own to help me see the truth of things. D’Anna is the surest of all of us and her guidance – however ill-conceived it might be – is all my siblings and I have right now. “We’re approaching your Fleet’s coordinates. You both need to come with me,” I tell them as I turn and climb down from the ship’s wing.

A moment later I look back to see if they are following, only to find that the Admiral has not yet moved from his seat. Sparing a brief, irritated glance at me, he leans down to whisper something in the President’s ear. I can’t hear what it is he says to her, but as she slowly opens her eyes and turns her head toward him there’s a palpable shift in the air between them; by the time both have risen to their feet, the only indication of the tenderness I’d seen earlier is the gentle press of the Admiral’s hand at the President’s elbow as he hands back her glasses and leads her onto the wing of the craft. 

“Admiral?” I turn to find Helo, flanked on either side by my Centurion guards, standing just inside the hatch to the landing bay with his hand resting warily on the butt of his sidearm. He levels a cautionary glance at me as he comes to a stop beside the Raptor, and the fierceness in his expression tells me everything I need to know. I’ve never seen it before, but I remember that look with the same painful clarity as I do the feeling of his bullet slicing through my sister’s shoulder.

Trust. It was foolish of me to believe that something so ephemeral, so easily manipulated could be secured through nothing more than a common purpose, a shared memory, a handshake. Like love, there is so much more to it than can be seen with the naked eye – a truth I hadn’t fully understood until now. 

“We’ve been summoned,” the Admiral replies as he guides the President down from the Raptor. His tone of voice does little to disguise his obvious distaste for the situation in which they have found themselves and yet at the sound of his name, spoken with quiet authority by the woman standing beside him, his openly hostile demeanor instantly eases into one of muted annoyance. 

The President watches him out of the corner of her eye a moment longer, then turns to me with a practiced, lukewarm smile. “By all means, please lead the way.”

Giving a nod to the Centurions, I turn and begin to make my way out. Behind me, I can hear the gruff rasp of the Admiral’s voice commanding Helo’s presence in the entourage, followed a moment later by the sound of five sets of footsteps falling into cadence with mine.

As I walk out into the corridor, the glittering walls of the salt mine are gone; there is nothing but perfect, unblemished metal stretching as far as the eye can see. Licking my lips I think back, finding and concentrating on a single moment in time – one that is all my own, this time – and a moment later my world is transformed. 

 

*fin.*


End file.
